


Watson's Woes 2019 Monthly Prompts

by gardnerhill



Series: Watson's Woes Monthly Prompts [2]
Category: Elementary (TV), Miss Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prompt Fic, Sakura (Cherry Blossoms)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: A collection of my monthly prompts for the Dreamwidth comm Watson's Woes for the year 2019.





	1. January: Mine to Give Her (Elementary)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's birthday – and like a hobbit he has a gift for his partner.

Joan came down the stairs in the flat they had taken. Her partner was already up. 

"Watson."

"Happy birthday, Sherlock." 

He nodded. "I have an outing for us both, if you're interested." 

"Sure." She didn't ask. He would reveal when he was ready. 

The last time she'd been here was a quick trip for Sherlock's business. Now London meant exile; separation from her friends, her mother, her home. Watson had been resolute but he'd seen the signs of shed tears; because Sherlock loved her, he said and did nothing to call attention to that. 

It was odd to realise that London now felt foreign to Sherlock. But it had never occurred to him to hesitate, when he saw Joan pick up her bag and turn her back on the brownstone.

January was easier here than in NYC – you could go out with just one layer of outerwear and not freeze in 10 steps. 

Out to a nearby Underground station, to Baker Street; they waited until the commuters were gone and headed toward the tunnel rather than the exit. The emergency stairs, along the tracks, a right turn, a door black with grime, a fissure in the wall. 

Watson picked her way through without a word, but Sherlock sensed the intrigue plucking at her. Her love for mystery made her a natural in this profession. 

When both stood in the old tunnel, Joan looked around, eyes shining in the light of her torch and wide in wonder at the architectural marvel. She looked at the brickwork, the rusted rails, the wooden ties. "This is the original Metropolitan Railway." 

Sherlock Holmes smiled to share this secret. "Brilliant deduction, Watson. Here it is always 1895." 

Lunch would be at a certain pub, with the best onion pie and homebrewed ale in the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the January 2019 Watson's Woes Monthly Prompt, “seeing how January 6 is Holmes' reported birthday, let's … make sure that Holmes is featured prominently in your work.” 
> 
> The title comes from the song "Sweet Thames Flow Softly" by Ewan McColl: "Londontown was mine to give her."


	2. February: Charybdis ("A Study in Crimson" Pirate AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This kind of storm is named for a demon god.

I grip the ratline and stare ahead. Fear races through my body even faster than the wind whipping around us. 

All hands are at their stations; no one is offwatch when Hell's doors are wide-open to welcome in all comers at sea. All are holding on to every available line, even those on deck and not just the ones up in the rigging or at the jib-boom as am I. 

The sea and sky ahead are the same ugly black-green, a wall of weather approaching the _Baker_. 

The Carib islanders have a name for this horror, the same name as their god of evil: _Huricán_. 

Captain Shear-Lock holds the wheel like Apollo gripping the reins of his sun-chariot. His face is flint. He has already calculated the damage that will be done to his beloved barque, the loss of life we will endure. 

But behind us are the _Spider_ , the _Wasp_ and the _King of Bohemia_ – Moriarty's entire flotilla. Likely death ahead; certain death behind. 

We have been going slower than full speed, luring our pursuers. They remain close behind us, and will be caught up in this storm too. 

One straw of hope: The _Baker_ is smaller and more maneuverable than the three that pursue us, a reed in such a storm. 

"Full sails!"

May we bend and not break.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the February 2019 Watson's Woes Monthly Prompt, “extreme weather."


	3. March: Salem (ACD, H/W)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panic and prudery can spread faster than measles.

"Get up, darling. The plague has struck. We must leave town." 

I bolted upright, not needing Sherlock Holmes' hand on my shoulder where he stood by the bedside in his dressing gown flung over his pyjama trousers. The grim set to his face made me quail inside. A touch of cold air about him meant he'd been at the open door at – good God it was not 2am.

"The plague" – instantly my mind was flooded with visions of the horror of 1665 London from Defoe's and Johnson's vivid accounts: bodies in abandoned houses, emptied streets, the reek of vinegar and corruption, trenches dug in churchyards to accommodate the dead. 

"Dear God, what is it?" I sat up, groping for my trousers. "Smallpox? Influenza?" Dread gripped me; my duty was to get to the hospital and help, no matter what Holmes said nor how it would grieve him for me to stay in contagion's path. I would convince him to flee alone if necessary – 

"Morality." 

I blinked, heart still pounding in panic. " _What_?"

Holmes' grim face did not change. "I have just received a message sent from Lestrade. 'Wilde arrested.'"

I sat on the bed's edge for a long moment, my whirling mind settling to make sense of the words. But then all was made clear, and I saw precisely which Londoners would be struck by this particular contagion. My stomach plummeted. 

Sherlock Holmes did not need me to speak for him to understand me perfectly. "Yes, John. Every queer, invert, Bohemian and 'confirmed bachelor' in the city will be put under suspicion if not immediately taken into custody as a threat to the children and the Empire. By dawn Lestrade will very likely be under orders to arrest us as well." 

Commissioner Richardson… Yes, he'd often proclaimed his revulsion at Oscar Wilde and the "simpering carnation-wearing pervert boys." At the sole crime scene we'd ever shared with the man, he'd seemed inordinately concerned with my widowed state, asking repeatedly how long it had been since my wife's death and why I had not remedied the loss (whilst glancing over at Holmes and back to me, eyes narrowed). "When Her Majesty recovers from losing her Albert shall I refrain from mourning Mary," I'd responded like an ice-floe, and the man had reacted as if I'd struck him the blow I heartily wished to give him. Holmes had returned to provide the information requested, his own voice unfailingly polite, respectful and ice-cold; but I saw the leashed rage in his own body-language. 

Yes, thought I, a man as thoroughly infected as the Commissioner would happily spread this plague far and wide. And we were already in his sights. 

I resumed dressing at top-speed; my bag already lay beneath my side of the bed, packed and ready as it ever was should a case call us away at a moment's notice. "We're for Paris, I presume." I tried to make my voice as light-hearted as I could. 

For the first time Sherlock Holmes smiled, and it was his private smile. "Not so far, my dear. London will be too warm for us for the next few months; but a pastoral university town in the north will permit us to slip from view without you missing a bite of steak-and-kidney pie."

He'd been planning this, or had selected this ahead of time. How fortunate I was in my choice of lover. 

I returned the smile as I stood, as much out of relief as affection (for no man lightly leaves his homeland and mother tongue behind). "Ah. One of our esteemed institutions of higher learning has a puzzle that only the mind of Sherlock Holmes can solve. So I shall write it, and so shall the mystery of our disappearance be explained. Now haste yourself, darling, and don't forget your violin." 

With only a quick kiss Holmes was away to tend to his own wardrobe and baggage. 

As I finished dressing, pausing only to add several novels and my pen to my habitual bag, several thoughts ran round in my head.

_Contagions run their course. Plagues vanish. This too shall pass._

And from this moment, I would never again mock Lestrade in my stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the March 2019 Watson's Woes Monthly Prompt, “contagion."


	4. April: Hanami (Miss Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cherry blossoms are fragile things and must be treated with tenderness.

Wato was a little low just now; quiet and sad rather than sunk deep into the depression she'd hidden for far too long after her return from Syria. Sherlock surreptitiously studied her partner, wanting to try and decipher the puzzle before simply giving up and asking Wato. 

Wato's mood might be simple exhaustion. Both women had recently completed a case involving weeks of research at several universities around Japan that offered majors in architecture, examining old blueprints to learn why Mr. Norowodo's apprentice would murder him. The case had ended successfully; they'd smoked out Norowodo very literally from a hidden room in his house, and had him arrested for attempting to frame Makufara Hekoto for a murder that never happened, to avenge his wounded pride at having been rejected by Makufara's mother years ago. They'd returned to 221b, relieved at both the replenished bank account and the comforts of home after all the train travel, cheap hotels and hours spent bent over documents. 

They'd only been back for a few days, and Wato had an air of subdued sadness which had first showed after her return from an errand outside. Sherlock turned over what she knew and what might be causing this mood. It wasn't something big, for Wato Tachibana had been reassuring to her partner ("It's nothing troublesome, only a bit of silliness") – and both trusted each other enough now that they no longer hid big important things from each other. Yet Sherlock observed Wato, making sure that the other woman was not once again trying to hide something deeper out of misguided shame or to avoid being seen as a burden. 

But it wasn't until Sherlock accompanied Wato during their shopping that she solved the small mystery, when she saw Wato pause for a moment to stare at a few scattered pale-pink flower petals on the street. _Baka!_ Sherlock scolded herself. 

They'd been out of town for most of March – which meant they'd missed all the Tokyo _hanami_ festivals. So that was why Wato was a little glum. 

Sherlock was relieved that it was indeed a minor thing that saddened Wato; but she also felt a small pain that she'd caused this sadness through the inopportune timing of the case. Sherlock herself loathed the crowds and clamor of the big cherry-blossom-viewing gatherings in the city (no _dango_ or _takoyaki_ were worth so much noise and confusion); but Wato, a romantic soul and a poetical heart, would love the tradition of _hanami_ and find poignant inspiration in the transitory blooms. 

Then Sherlock smiled to herself. This was something she could fix. 

When they were back in their rooms, they sat together with their electronics; Wato was no doubt working on her notes for the Norowodo case. Sherlock's fingers flew across her laptop, and seconds later she had her answer. 

"Wato-san!" she called cheerily over her shoulder from her study-niche in the main room. 

Wato looked up from her own laptop where she sat on the sofa. "Sherlock?"

"Our case is over, we have money, and we need some time off. Go pack for a week."

Wato's expression was one of almost comical dismay. "Travel? Again? But we just unpacked!"

Sherlock waved a hand. "This isn't for work, unless you think walking around a park is work. Take a blanket. I need to see if we can get a hotel room in Aomori this late."

Ah. How beautiful her Wato was when her whole face lit up in unrestrained delight; how sad that Wato's happiness could be as transitory as cherry blossoms. "The Hirosaki _hanami_? I've always wanted to go!" 

Hirosaki was one of the most popular locales outside Tokyo for _hanami_ – and since it was in northern Japan, their cherry trees bloomed later for a subsequently-later _hanami_ than in the Tokyo area. The blossoms and their famed pink-carpet effect would be perfect in less than a week. 

Sherlock faced the screen, still grinning at having caused that beautiful expression on her lover's face. "If we can't get a room, we could go to Sapporo for their _hanami_ a week after that. You could visit your father at the same time."

Wato's face was tenderness, her eyes shining. "We do have important news to share with him, true. But we'll save that for another visit. Oh Sherlock, this is a lovely idea! I thought I'd have to wait till next year. Let's go, even if we have to sleep in cubicles at the train station." And there was her gloriously impish grin that turned Sherlock's stomach into butterflies. "I can sit on the blanket in the park and look at the cherry blossoms, and you can try all the different dumplings at the booths."

Sherlock laughed out loud. What better proof that Wato loved and understood her! " _Hana yori dango_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the April 2019 Watson's Woes Monthly Prompt, “blossom."
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _Hanami_ : the tradition in Japan of viewing cherry blossoms in spring; also the term for the festivals in major cities around such viewings.  
>  _Baka_ : Idiot  
>  _Dango_ : Rice dumplings served at festivals  
>  _Takoyaki_ : Fritters made with octopus, another festival treat  
>  _Hana yori dango_ : "Dumplings over flowers" – a proverb teasing those who go to the festivals for the food rather than the blossoms.


	5. May Drabble Prompt #1: Shiny (Birblock AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peregrine learns of his new friend's weakness, and does something about it.

Raven stared across the courtyard. 

Peregine saw a woman wearing a sleek black top hemmed with sparkling discs. "That's a good shirt, definitely not American. Possibly Parisian." No response. "Raven?"

"Shiny." Raven had not moved. "So. _Shiny_." 

The one-winged falcon hid his amusement. Then Peregrine hopped closer to the shirt-wearer, cheeping like a chick. 

It worked. She bent down, charmed – and Peregrine lunged forward, tearing at the sparkly stuff. He hopped away from the screaming woman, and dropped the swatch of sequins at his friend's feet. "For your collection."

Marie always swore those two _oiseaux damnés_ were laughing at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2019 Watson's Woes Merry Month of May Drabbles Week 1 Prompt; I chose Watson misbehaving / mischievous.


	6. May Drabble Prompt #2: Bothered Not a Whit (ACD, H/W)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whitsun Week is a time for bells big and small.

We two had travelled to a small northwestern town in mid-June to find the thieves who'd taken the church bell; not only did we catch the gang but we returned the bell in time for the town's seasonal festivities. However, our planned return to London that night was thwarted as our train's engine required repair.

Neither of us was complaining. 

Though the night was late Holmes embraced me again and began to move, causing my shirt to jingle. "I didn't… _know_ … you were a… Morris dancer, John."

I grinned. "I didn't know you reacted that way to Morris dancers, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2019 Watson's Woes Merry Month of May Drabbles Week 2 Prompt: Whitsun holiday / Watson wants Holmes to take a restful holiday / A plan goes awry / Late nights / Stranded


	7. May Drabble Prompt #3: Men of Letters (ACD)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of correspondence between medical professionals.

My dear Dr. Anstruther: I apologize profusely for imposing upon you, but must make a request. I'm afraid a pressing matter calls me out of town for a few days. Can you possibly please cover my practise until Friday? I'll be happy to repay the favour at your pleasure. Yours Faithfully, John Watson.

#

Anstruther: Holmes requires my aid. Can you tend my patients till my return? Will wire when I know. I owe you. Yours, Watson.

#

ANSTRUTHER AWAY WITH H STOP RETURN UNCERTAIN STOP KEY UNDER MAT FULL STOP W 

#

A USUAL SCENARIO FULL STOP JW

*** 

"Anstruther's _moved_? But why?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2019 Watson's Woes Merry Month of May Drabbles Week 3 Prompt: **Correspondence**.


	8. May Drabble Prompt #4: Retirement (ACD, Retirement Era, H/W)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sussex mornings.

Sherlock starts the day with a swim in the ocean; he rises with the sun and heads down to the cove, his swimsuit in his pocket. 

A former soldier cherishes his sleep; I remain under the covers while my spouse practices his morning routine. 

But I arise half an hour later on my own. And when I hear the cheery humming of some Wagnerian air that is the harbinger of his return to the cottage, I stand on the cliff-top watching his water-plastered anguilliform figure approaching up the path, and greet him with a kiss and a cup of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2019 Watson's Woes Merry Month of May Drabbles Week 4 Prompt: The words selected are anguilliform / coffee / harbinger


	9. September: Sausages, Laws and Rum (A Study in Crimson Pirate AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Shear-Lock does few things as do most pirates – including the way he drinks.

"Captain, you're a strange sort of sailor." 

The leader of our privateer vessel looked up from the thick book he read at his desk that we shared for our work. He smiled. "Jack, you of all people know how important it is for an officer at sea to stay abreast of modern navigation and combat methods." 

I smiled from my own open tome (the ship's log which I was updating in my role as ship's quartermaster). "I speak of what rests at your right elbow, Shear-Lock." 

"Ah. Naturally. Well, I am hardly the first sailorman to drink sack." He held up his small silver cup holding the strong white wine from the Canary Islands. My own grog-mug rested in the same location at my share of his table. 

"It is not merely what you drink, but what you do not drink, that sets you apart."

Shear-Lock nodded, his unfashionably-shoulder-length hair swaying a little with the gesture. "I tell most folk that I loathe the molasses taste of the stuff. Too much foul medicine mixed with treacle in my youth." 

I laughed with him. That was a believable response, even if it was not the truth or the whole truth. "A good enough reason for me, Cap'n." 

The smile Captain Shear-Lock directed at me was warmer than the previous one, to match his grey eyes. 

"I was still a lieutenant aboard a ship of Their Majesties' Navy when we landed at Barbados to take on supplies and labour. The slaves we brought aboard the _Victoria_ were blessing God for taking them away from the rum plantations – we were pressing them aboard a ship that would go to war and they _rejoiced_ at this change in their fortunes. At observing this, I volunteered to go ashore to buy rum from one of the planters for our grog. And I saw how the rum was made."

The captain's face was stone. "The next time I took up my grog-cup, all I tasted was child's blood. I tipped it over the side and have not touched it since." 

My own face was the same stiff expression as Shear-Lock's when he had concluded. I looked at my mug – the ubiquitous grog-ration that was drunk by everyone in the South Seas. Without a word I took up the noggin and poured the remainder of its contents into a waste-pail. 

Shear-Lock was waiting with his wine-bottle when I straightened. "Slaves work the vineyards too, Jack. But at least they are adults, and do not die in droves every night to make this beverage." 

I took up my cup and touched it to the captain's. "May we do what we can, where we can, and when we can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the September 2019 Watson's Woes Monthly Prompt, “strong spirits." Also written to commemorate September 19, International Talk Like a Pirate Day.


	10. Ripple (October Spooktacular Prompt #1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unforeseen repercussion.

I move a pipette over a beaker. I freeze, staring at the ripples as the solution drips; half-inch waves in the receptacle, not the width of my thumb. 

I set down my cigar and fall into a brown study. Watson calls me back to myself, and only then do I realise that I have been fixated on the half-inch diameter of the stub, already more than half-ash where I have abandoned it.

The thickness of the toast in the morning, and that of the sole fillet at evening; the width of a farthing to a beggar; the breadth of the horsehair on my bow. Nothing that is a half-inch or near it escapes my eyes. They roil round my mind all the livelong day. I am not only fixated but frightened, because I know that such obsessions are symptoms of madness. 

I cannot, _cannot_ tell Watson of this, of any of this. But I have resources still. I go to the only man in London smarter than myself for help.

As I suspected, I did not need to say anything out loud. "Sherlock," Mycroft rumbles in disapprobation, catching me gazing at the strip of leading on a beautifully-cut window in the Stranger's Room. " _He_ has forgotten it. Your inability to do so speaks ill of your current mental state." 

"He is a soldier." I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice. "He has faced so much worse in my service." 

My brother nods, and lets me card the tangled skein clear in the peaceful silence of the room. 

I think of those other instances; vile men, vicious dogs, deadly snakes, ghastly drugs. Why was this one different? 

And once I face it head-on, it comes to me. 

Murders and terrible threats, all of those others; worthy adversaries to a man of action, foils that merited a soldier's courage. But this last case? A ridiculous tuppenny-ha'penny swindle on a gullible old fool, for mere money and not even _real_ money? Not worth a sparrow's life in the balance, let alone the other half of my blood and soul. 

Like any soldier who's faced worse and lived to tell, Watson has brushed off a bullet-crease that missed his femoral artery by a mere half-inch. But I see that not-a-thumb's-width everywhere, the difference that kept me from what would have been the most terrible loss of my life.

I no longer have the nerve to risk both of us this way. Enough. It is time for me to close the door on this work and take up other pursuits to keep my brain occupied. 

I stand and take my leave, still without a word. Mycroft says nothing in return. 

While pondering how I am to break this news to Watson – and find a way not to have him castigate himself as the cause for my lost profession – I pass a flower-stall. 

Something catches my eye. I halt, transfixed by yet one more half-inch item perched on one of the violets. 

A bee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the October 2019 Watson's Woes Spooktacular prompt #1, “A Haunting Thought: Whether it's a memory, an idea, or just something that won't get out of a character's head, have something mental haunt a character."


End file.
